


By Any Means

by mariecherie, my_deer_friend



Series: Compromise verse [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a political operative, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - Politics, Anal Sex, Angst, Espionage, Gun Violence, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, John is a hacker, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Sex for Favors, Stalking, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, inappropriate feelings between foster brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariecherie/pseuds/mariecherie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_deer_friend/pseuds/my_deer_friend
Summary: Alex doesn't need to tap into his growing wealth of experience of scheming and charming D.C.’s top public figures tonight. The slightly tipsy, moronic IRS staffer sitting beside him at the bar is falling over himself to buy Alex drinks, to find an excuse to place a heavy hand on his knee, to name-drop various politicians and government officials Alex is certain he isn’t as friendly with as he pretends.At least he’s senior enough to have the encryption key on his cellphone that Alex needs to clone for John’s hacker stuff.This is sure to be his easiest catch yet.---The dark politics AU where Alex gets fostered with the Laurens family and ends up doing to all sorts of illicit dealings for his foster father.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Henry Laurens (1723-1792), Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: Compromise verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966405
Comments: 20
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

Alex is getting better at feeling out a mark for the now-familiar signs of reciprocated interest. He has to be certain that his subtle flirtations - the sorts of things that still give him plausible deniability - are being interpreted and welcomed in the way he intends. It would be disastrous to try and charm a straight man into bed, not in the least because it would be a sore bruise to Alex's ego. He can picture Henry’s amused scorn vividly; that sort of intuition is left down to Alex - whether he should work to gain a mark’s trust by proving himself intelligent and dependable as a political ally, or use equally underhanded, yet more lascivious methods.

He doesn't need to tap into his growing wealth of experience tonight. The slightly tipsy, moronic IRS staffer sitting beside him at the bar is falling over himself to buy Alex drinks, to find an excuse to place a heavy hand on his knee, to name-drop various politicians and government officials Alex is certain he isn’t as friendly with as he pretends. At least he’s senior enough to have the encryption key on his cellphone that Alex needs to clone for John’s hacker stuff. This is sure to be his easiest catch yet. 

"Alex?"

The man, painfully average looking and unpleasantly evocative of Alex's eighth grade geometry teacher, is staring at him with a bright, nervous smile. He realises, for all his internal mocking of this particular mark's guilelessness, he's zoned out and missed the question. Still, he can play this to his favour. He was just _too_ _absorbed_ in the man's watery grey eyes.

He gives a small start, looks up into the other man's face - it helps that that's several inches between their heights - and parts his lips in an embarrassed grin.

"Sorry," he murmurs, blushing, "Uh, what did you say?"

The man's chest seems to swell with barely contained delight and he rushes to repeat himself. Some asinine question about the false line of work Alex gave him when they first met last week. No wonder he’s so fucking desperate, Alex thinks with a passably flirtatious twitch of his eyebrow; if he acts like this on every date, Alex doubts he gets his dick wet much at all. 

Henry had suggested Alex find an in with the IRS, so he’d pulled a few useful, albeit _reluctant_ contacts and found his way to a deathly boring gala and golf lunch at some second-rate club down on the Potomac. He’s gotten too used to the country club he usually frequents, undeniably beautiful even to Alex, who is indifferent towards golf. Henry remburses him for these visits, of course, otherwise he supposes he’d be used to less.

Alex is growing impatient. _Henry_ will be growing impatient, likely reading on that leather sofa of his, looking idly at his watch every quarter of an hour and wondering when Alex's call will come. 

Alex doesn’t like to keep Henry waiting. 

Alex has never seen Henry at his most relaxed in there, but he imagines Henry in one of the suits he’s almost never out of, leaning back across that smooth, gleaming leather - pants stretched taut over powerful thighs, maybe his shirt sleeves rolled up past his strong forearms--

He’s zoned out again - _what is with him tonight?_ Still, he thinks the slight sheen that his eyes take on when he thinks of Henry this way will read as arousal, as attraction to the pathetic man beside him - instead of his foster father, who is infinitely more impressive, infinitely more a _man._

He finally accepts the man's third offer of another rum and coke and sees the excited twitch of his mark's eyebrows. In a few minutes, he should begin to tease the possibility of them going somewhere together after this. Still, he wants his mark to suggest it first. It's _so_ much more delicious to guide them into becoming the agents of their own demise. Not that he thinks this will be a particularly difficult endeavour tonight. 

He takes a sip of his drink and runs his tongue over his lips. Earlier that evening, he was biting them furiously in the back of his Uber, mostly because Henry had sent him a rather backhanded and borderline explicit text referencing the last time Alex fucked this kind of meeting up, but also because he knows that they look good this way.

"So you're what- the regional manager or something?" he asks, ignoring whatever the mark has just been saying, leaning in to rest his elbow on the bar and cup his chin in his hand. 

The man grins; his eyes dart to Alex's mouth for a long moment. Subtlety has left the game by now. Alex responds to this gaze by dragging his teeth over his bottom lip, as though perplexed.

"I’m deputy commissioner of internal revenue."

Alex frowns, pouting a little. He's decided that this version of himself is a little dumb, in a cute sort of way.

“Wow, that sounds really important. Does that make you the boss of the whole office?"

The man scoffs, and Alex realises he might be laying it on a little thick. He ducks his head and shrugs, taking another sip of his drink as though trying to cool his nerves. 

The man laughs again, and now the hand on his knee has tightened and crept up to his mid-thigh. If the bar weren't relatively quiet, Alex would be concerned about ensuring discretion. This mark really is throwing himself at Alex.

Because he knows this is all in the bag already, Alex shifts his leg away coyly and flicks out his tongue to lick his lips. But he makes sure to keep his body language open and inviting. It’s always better if they feel there’s a bit of a hunt.

"Well, sweetie, not quite… that's what I want to be some day," the man shrugs, grinning self-importantly. Internally, Alex scoffs. If this guy ever actually makes it to a C-suite, he’ll send him a fucking gift basket. 

He rubs his thighs against each other enticingly. "Well, I doubt you wanna talk about work _now_ ," Alex mumbles, finishing the last of the drink and sliding the empty glass a few feet down the bar so that he doesn't upset it when he leans in to brush his lips against the mark's ear. "Isn't it all very confidential? Tax secrets and things like that? It feels so - dangerous. Anyone in this bar could be a spy..." 

He raises his eyebrows conspiratorially and his grin this time is genuine. He’s actually having fun now. 

The mark laughs and Alex takes note of the way the tips of his ears redden at the physical contact. He nods importantly, scanning the room of middle-aged football fans and college kids with narrowed eyes.

The hand returns to his knee and slides up slowly. "Yes, maybe we should abort mission? Find a more _secure_ location?"

Alex feels his skin crawl at the sheer stupidity of this joke, but he forces a convincingly light laugh and bites his lip. "You're right... I wouldn't want to get you in any, ah, trouble."

The man's hand on his thigh presses a little harder and his gaze travels up from Alex's lap to his now bitten-raw lips. _Jesus, this man is a creep_. Couldn't Alex be given a slightly more charming target for once? Alex is becoming convinced that Henry has some binder in his office, listing the most repulsive characters in D.C., and that he picks marks exclusively from this.

He’s only half joking when he thinks that.

"You want me to call a taxi? We're only a few minutes from my apartment." 

Alex flashes sharp white teeth. "Sounds great." 

The taxi ride is unpleasant. This mark can't keep his hands to himself, and even though Alex plays the slightly embarrassed, flustered part of a young, awed ingenue to perfection, he's conscious that the driver may recognise - or at least pay some interest to - the sharply dressed, important-looking man feeling up some young kid in his back seat.

He gives a small, not altogether feigned yelp when, as he's sliding out of the car with his back to the mark, he feels a hand pinch his ass playfully. Then he shudders at the press of a mouth to the back of his neck.

"You've been very eager to get into my bed, haven't you, you pretty thing?" he murmurs, and if Alex weren't on the clock, he'd visibly shiver at the repulsive leer in his voice. Or say what he’s thinking, which is that he’s being paid a generous sum to be here tonight, and if he weren’t, he’d be fucking someone at least half-way attractive and only ten percent as slimy.

Alex waits until he's stepped out onto the sidewalk and the other man has shut the taxi door with a confident flourish. Then, he pulls the man to him by his lapels and makes as though he's going in for a kiss. He angles his mouth away from his mark's at the last second and presses his lips to the pale, slightly clammy patch of skin just beneath the man's ear.

"Yes, your bed - not the back seat of a taxi," he whispers, grinning broadly, "Why don't you show me the way?"

***

The mark is rummaging noisily through an over-filled dresser drawer when Alex's phone gives an abortive, secretive little buzz on the cluttered bedside table to Alex’s right. Henry. It must be, because Alex’s phone is on silent but he isn’t allowed to mute _Henry’s_ messages. Alex snatches his phone off the table and opens his messages with furious haste. 

_H.L > Does he have excellent stamina or are you off your game tonight? _

_Alex > Working on it. Give me 1hr. _

Alex grits his teeth, tapping out this curt response and dropping his phone just in time for his mark to turn around with a broad grin on his face, the gleaming foil of a condom wrapper in his hand.

Hmm. Maybe this one has more of his wits about him than Alex has previously thought. He doesn't need to collect any physical evidence tonight, so at least this surprise is a welcome one.

The sex is about as good as Alex could have reasonably expected - which means, not very. The mark pushes him into his stomach with a rather forceful, unceremonious shove and crouches on his haunches over Alex's thighs, his unpleasantly clammy hand fumbling between them to provide Alex with the minimum amount of prep necessary to physically manage _this_. 

Alex, ever the performer, claws at the sheets, and then arches his back in a flawless, filthy impression of desperation when he feels the mark curl a loose hand in his now unruly, tangled shock of hair. He exhales a long, drawn out keen that catches just short of a moan in his throat and, behind him, the mark curses low under his breath. 

It's better this way, not looking into his face, he’s able to project whatever idle fantasy or identity he likes onto the cock entering him from behind. Not that he finds it all that difficult to pretend at unbridled passion - he has completely debased himself, making fierce eye-contact all the while, in the laps of more than one US congressman just for that sudden rush of heat inside him; the final, essential addition to the weighty repertoire of blackmail Henry requires.

Tonight, it isn’t _the mark_ who’s important. If he were, Alex might have at least a modicum of respect for him. No, it’s an encrypted key on his phone that John needs to unlock some stolen tax records they lifted a few months ago. Henry needs to put some pressure on a congressman to vote favourably for a new spending measure, and this particular mark happened to be the easiest, most gullible target with access to the key they need.

Alex writhes and groans his way through the mark’s stuttering orgasm, then bats the man’s hand away and finishes himself off - a bit of a lewd display, but it’s better than having those hands on him for any longer. 

“You’re so beautiful, boy,” the mark purrs at him as he’s catching his breath - and Alex hears a little echo of Henry in the slightly condescending epithet. But without the gravelly, paternal fondness that characterises some of Henry’s more tender moments, it feels hollow. He shivers. “I can look after you. Keep coming back and I’ll be very good to you. Do you need a little cash now to get home?”

Alex raises an eyebrow as though he’s considering this utterly ludicrous offer. He’s playing the broke student, though really he probably makes more off a month of jobs like this than this creep makes in a year. 

He probably wants to be called daddy, too. Ugh.

“No, I’m fine - but thanks.”

The man shrugs and presses a kiss between Alex’s eyes - his lips are moist, and this makes the hairs on the back of Alex’s neck stand up. Despite Alex’s refusal, he reaches into the pocket of his discarded pants and pulls out a few crumpled banknotes. He tosses them down onto the mattress, then gets off the bed and slips into the bathroom. 

The shower turns on, and as soon as Alex hears the clatter of the door closing, he springs into action. He roots around in his satchel for the little device John gave him, plugs it into the mark’s phone - carelessly, stupidly discarded in plain sight - and lets the gizmo do its thing. Less than a minute later, it flashes a little green light. Alex pulls it out, stashes it again, wipes the phone down - you can never be too careful, though it doesn’t seem like he needs to take any real precautions with this moron - and puts it back on the bedside table.

In a flash he’s back in most of his clothes, and he pulls out a prewritten note that he leaves on the pillow - something vague about good times and see-you-arounds. He eyes the bank notes for a second, hesitates, then reaches over and grabs them. Old habits. Then he slips out. 

He walks a few blocks away before calling an Uber, and rides home feeling increasingly dirty and uncomfortable, almost wishing he’d taken a shower there before having to sit through a twenty-minute car ride with another person’s sweat still clinging to his skin.

He sends John a message when he’s five minutes out, and when he walks into their apartment, John is already firing up his laptop.

“Hey,” John says. “How did it go?”

“Fine,” Alex says flatly. “Here.” He tosses the dongle over and John catches it, but not before he gives Alex a suspicious look.

Alex goes to the fridge and grabs a beer. Something to wash the taste out of his mouth.

John is tapping away, and Alex takes a minute to breathe. It’s nice to have a home to come back to after a long workday, even if home means your slightly moody foster brother and his disapproving looks. Well, _especially_ if home means John… Alex doesn’t interact with many people on a regular basis who bother much about anything beneath the persona he’s working with that day. He supposes John’s occasionally overbearing concern balances out against Alex’s admittedly rather emotionally sterile daily life.

“Um, Alex?”

He walks back over. John is frowning. 

“Are you sure you let the dongle finish the copy before you pulled it out?”

Alex rolls his eyes. “I’m not a tech genius like you, but I’m not a moron, John. I know what it means when you say ‘wait for the green light’.” Then he sees the narrowed line of John’s eyebrows. “Why? Is something wrong?” 

“Um.” John looks like he’s struggling to find the right words. “I… It’s not coming up. See, we should be getting a string of characters here, like at least ten lines of numbers and letters and stuff. But this isn’t a symmetric authenticator. It’s just some low-level key.” 

“Okay, so what?”

John types away for a second. An excel spreadsheet opens on his screen. There’s a list of names in one column, and then the same list of names scrambled up next to it. 

“What the fuck is that?”

John drops his face into his hands. “Look at the file name,” he mumbles.

Alex does.

Secret Santa 2018.

“Wait. What?”

John is shaking his head, refusing to meet his eye. “It… Alex, this isn’t the key.”

Alex feels an immediate flush - fury, confusion, and on top of all of it, shame.

“I did exactly what you said,” he says, indignantly, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, I know,” John says, trying to sound reassuring. “The issue’s not on your side. The phone just didn’t have the key we were looking for on it.”

“But…”

John reaches out a hand to his shoulder. “Alex? You sure this was the right guy?”

Alex knocks the hand off and gets to his feet. “Fuck!” He runs a hand through his hair, still greasy from the night’s activities. “You’re fucking kidding me!”

“Look, Alex, it’s--”

“I’m taking a shower,” Alex snaps, cutting John off. _John_ isn’t the one Henry is going to rip into for this.

He storms into the bathroom and rips his clothes off, throws them on the ground like a petulant child. How did he fuck this up? He’s been circling this guy for weeks!

He steps under the stream of warm water and clenches his fists. He fucked that guy’s pathetic cock for what? _Secret fucking Santa lists?_

He’s just wasted _weeks_. He’s not meant to screw up like this. What will--

Fuck. What _will_ Henry say? 

Alex can imagine it already - Henry’s sneer, his tone tinged with sarcasm at Alex’s arrogance leading him astray. Henry’s hands fiddling with his fountain pen. Henry rising from his desk, frowning, angry--

Shit!

Wait.

Why is he getting hard?

Alex clenches his eyes shut. He’s burning with shame at his stupid mistake, still antsy from the uncomfortable, unsatisfying sex. He’s about to get a vicious scolding from his foster father. None of this should be having _that_ effect on him.

But - he’s alone in here, and he’s alone in the privacy of his mind. Alex is very good at escaping reality when it suits him. 

He wraps a hand around himself and lets his mind wallow in the intrusive images he has been chasing away all night long. 

Henry. That firm, low growl that he always starts with, to make his displeasure clear. The narrowed eyes, gaze no less sharp for being lidded. He thinks of Henry walking over to his leather sofa. Sitting down, his strong legs spread widely. Beckoning Alex over with a firm, rebuking gesture. Pulling him down over his knees…

Alex lets out a soft groan and speeds up his hand. He can’t be too loud - John’s just next door - so he jams the side of his hand between his teeth.

He imagines that dangerous hand drawing back, then smacking down hard on his ass. _Fuck._ Henry’s other hand on his lower back, holding him down. Another blow, further down. A stream of cruel beratements to go with it. Then the hand yanking his pants down, because - _well, Alexander, I can’t go easy on you when you’ve been so terribly undisciplined_. 

More bruising smacks.

God, he’s close--

 _I’m sorry,_ he imagines himself crying - and he actually mumbles the words around the hand in his mouth. _Please. Stop. I’ll be better._

But the Henry in his mind doesn’t stop. And then Alex imagines feeling the nudge of Henry’s hard cock against his stomach and in a moment he’s a shuddering mess as he comes into his hand.

His legs tremble slightly as he catches his breath. He scrubs himself off quickly, then climbs out of the shower and wraps himself in a towel.

John gives him a concerned look when he re-emerges. “You okay?”

Alex shrugs. “I fucked up. It’s not the end of the world.”

John gives him a piercing, knowing look, but he doesn’t comment on that. “Your, ah, phone’s been buzzing.”

Alex picks it up without looking at the messages. He knows who it is.

“I’m gonna take this in the other room,” he says quietly. 

“You want me to--?”

“No, John. It’s fine. I don’t think Henry can do anything worse to me than I’ve done to myself.”


	2. Chapter 2

Alex wakes up with an unpleasant taste in his mouth and a faint but persistent ache in his ass. It’s not painful, but it’s a background reminder of the weeks he wasted trying to siphon information off an inconsequential sleazebag. The bruising to his ego is more acute.

His phone tells him he’s slept in; it’s ten in the morning and his emails have started to stack up.

He turns his phone on silent and gets out of bed. John’s keys and jacket are missing from the hallway. It’s a Saturday; _that’s right_ , _it’s the weekend._ Then he’ll be at the gym. Alex hasn’t been paying attention to the passing days. He’d been so sure he’d get that encryption key last night, he hadn’t bothered worrying about the deadline looming ominously just over the horizon. He has two weeks until this vote, but Henry will want these tax records at least three or four days in advance.

Alex is good at pulling off ridiculously intricate schemes in inexplicably short amounts of time. All-nighters, pages upon pages of bureaucratic drivel, endless phone calls and recon trips - as long as he sees his goal approaching with speed and certainty, he wouldn’t trade the rush of a hard-earned success for anything.

But starting a task like this almost completely from scratch, with just about ten days to do it? That isn’t cutting it close and succeeding within a hair’s breadth and a smug grin - that’s futile madness.

He roots around in his closet for something warm to put on over his pyjama pants and t-shirt, but the shelves are pretty empty; he doesn’t have a lot to begin with, and he hasn’t done laundry in a while. So he slips over to John’s closet and pulls out one of his hoodies instead. 

Just because he’s cold. It’s not like he needs the _comfort_.

He opens his laptop at the kitchen table while the coffee maker rattles and hisses steam. He doesn’t check his emails. He goes back to the folder he has on this mission and spends several minutes clicking hopelessly around pages of binary and meaningless lists of various IRS department heads that John managed to harvest off an old contact’s work cell. If he’s going to pull this off, he doesn’t have time to use his charm or his body; social engineering is a slow and delicate process. He has to forcibly take these tax records, not persuade some hapless pen-pusher to dump them into his lap.

He’s finished his third cup of coffee and is feeling the caffeine in the little twitch under his eye when John’s greeting sounds out from the hall. Alex can’t decide if he wants John to sit beside him and fill in the oppressive silence with chatter about gym drama and his latest photography project, or if he needs to be away from his foster brother’s far-from-subtle looks of concern right now. So he leaves it up to John.

____

“You slept in,” Johns says lightly as he puts his gym back down by the washing machine and glances conspicuously over the admittedly familiar scene before him. A twitchy, caffeinated Alex typing furiously at his laptop, half deaf to the comings and goings around him.

And Alex has raided his closet again. It’s not like John minds, really, but Alex is terrible at remembering to do the laundry and John feels a weird twist in his stomach when he pulls on a piece of his own clothing and finds that it still has Alex’s smell on it.

Alex gives vague a murmur of acknowledgement but otherwise it’s as though he hasn’t heard him.

“Have you eaten breakfast?” John asks, even though he knows what the answer will be. This time, Alex actually spares him a half a glance. The look in his eyes instantly throws John off. Where he’d expected the distracted, vaguely manic sheen typical of Alex's expression when he’s absorbed in work like this, instead he sees that rare flicker of desperation that marrs Alex's natural cocky ease when some of his smugness has been taken from him. 

“Not hungry,” Alex says, turning back to his screen without the usual exaggerated sigh of irritation John gets whenever he tries to needle Alex into such arduous tasks as eating and sleeping.

John moves over to the cupboard and pulls out the cinnamon-raisin bagels he knows Alex won’t turn his nose up at if John does the preparing bit for him. As he pulls one open and slots it into the toaster, he forces some of the sudden tension that has sprung up in his shoulders to ease. If Alex is going to be the anxious wreck today, he can’t go the same way.

“Do you have any other leads? To get that encryption key?” He keeps his tone light, because if Alex catches on that John has seen even a sliver of that worry, that uncertainty in his face, he’ll seize up and be on the defensive.

Alex’s face twists into a scowl, just for a moment. “Working on it.”

“Did dad give you any--”

Alex glances over at his foster brother with a look that almost reads as amusement, if John didn’t recognise the snide incredulity behind it. “No. Of course not. And, John, I have ten days to get this done, so unless you can provide me with a comprehensive list of everyone at the IRS with CI clearance, I don’t wanna hear it.”

John bites the inside of his cheek and turns back to the toaster, drumming his fingers against the countertop, torn between leaving Alex to stew in this mess of his own creation and taking the blows as he tries to offer his help.

“I’m not completely useless at that stuff,” he says, not allowing an inch of resentment to creep into his voice. He’s not getting into _that_ argument now.

Alex exhales hard through his nose, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“I just need to figure out who _definitely_ has this key and how to get it off them without a repeat of last night. _And_ that motherfucker keeps texting me.”

John purses his lips. He doesn’t like the idea of a mark staying around for any longer than he’s useful. Or, well, in this case for any more time than Alex has already wasted on him. Still, he can leave Alex’s sharp tongue and frankly scathing verbosity to deal with that poor guy. He needs to take some of this staggering workload off Alex’s shoulders. He puts the bagel down beside Alex’s laptop and takes a seat.

“What do you need me to do?”

_______

“Shit, am I getting wrinkles?” 

Alex elbows John aside and leans into the bathroom mirror, pulling at the corner of one eye, then the other.

“Alex, you’re, what, twenty-two? I don’t think you have to worry about that just yet.” 

Alex pouts. “Of course you’d say that. You’re handsome now, and when you get older you’ll just look more like your-- Ah. Point is, I need my looks.”

John scoffs and turns away from the mirror they always end up jostling for space at. Alex is still fixing his hair, frowning as he tries to pat down the fly-aways. Vain motherfucker, John thinks fondly.

Alex catches John's hand as he lifts his razor to his face. John tries to ignore the way those nimble, competent fingers feel clutching at his wrist. It's adrenaline, nothing more, that sends the momentary sensation of being shocked through the tips of his fingers to his core.

"Don't shave, you look more--" 

"Like a hobo," groans John, dropping the razor and running a hand over his stubbled jaw. He hates not being clean shaven, but he recognises Alex is right. 

Alex shrugs, a teasing twitch of his mouth, and begins to lather his own face with shaving foam. "The word I was going to use was macho, but maybe your comparison is more apt."

John is wearing a navy boiler suit and a pair of heavy tan work boots. He picked both up at a goodwill two days ago, and Alex seemed to have a good time taking out his anger on the boiler suit with some of John's white paints and linseed oil. Now, it's a stained, worn looking garment that ensures John will blend into the background. In direct juxtaposition to John's appearance, Alex is in one of his nicer suits, a charcoal grey number with an emerald green tie. John supposes Alex had better fit in well with the many other besuited, sharply dressed IRS corporate personnel that he'll be walking among later to steal this encryption key. As though reading his mind, Alex makes eye-contact with John in the mirror and raises an eyebrow in mock-flirtation. 

"What d'ya think, Jackie?" 

John rolls his eyes. "Absolutely gorgeous. If there's a pageant on at the IRS offices, be sure to enter."

Alex shrugs, pulling at one dark circle beneath his eye with an irritated huff.

"Well, gotta look hot in case I have to blow any security guards, right?"

John wrinkles his nose. "Please promise me that's not going to happen."

Alex shrugs again. "Sure hope not."

They both fall silent for a moment and, in an instant, the ease and sense of normality between them that they've been trying so hard to maintain with asinine banter falls away. They're left looking at each other, suddenly comprehending the sheer brazen insanity of this plan.

"If this works..." John starts, then trails off with a nervous inhale.

Alex's jaw is set in fervent determination. It's a look John has seen more times than he can count, but it always means at least one thing, that Alex is going to put every last defiant ounce of himself into this task, that he doesn't plan on failure. John thinks, with a twinge of hesitant optimism, that when Alex truly sets his mind to something, there’s little that he can't achieve. John doesn’t know what will happen when _he’s_ thrown into the equation; he just has to hope he’s not the weak link, the single typo in a line of code that breaks the entire program. 

"It will. The real risk is only while I'm copying the hard drive, and I only need about a minute to do that. You just have to look busy and stop anyone from coming in."

John nods tightly, then tries a smile.

Alex grins. "And if for some reason you can't stop someone entering, I'll crawl into the vents."

John laughs weakly. "And leave me behind?"

Alex sighs, clapping John on one broad shoulder. "You wouldn't fit into the air vents. That's hardly my fault."

The two of them watch each other for another moment. John wishes he could step inside that brilliant brain of Alex’s, translate those unreadable expressions into clear, concise feelings as simple as any binary-to-text conversion. But Alex has always been gifted at keeping his feelings hidden beneath layers of sarcasm, defiant ambition and masterful avoidance of any situation that might render him vulnerable in the eyes of others. And John? Well, Alex tells him he’s an open book and Henry has described him as ‘simple’ enough times for the message to sink in. He’s not a particularly difficult to read person.

“Let’s get going,” says Alex finally, breaking the silence, and slams his hand against the light switch below the mirror a little more firmly than necessary.

________

Alex is desperately trying to justify his decision - against Henry’s clear and absolute instructions - to involve John in this madness. Before they’d parted ways a block away from the IRS building downtown, there’d been a nervous, uncertain set to John’s jaw. Alex can tell he’s having doubts, but it’s far too late to pull out now. He just hopes that if this does go to shit and they spend tonight in a jail cell, it’s not John’s fault - because if it is, Alex will be taking the fall for him. 

He approaches the security desk and reaches into his pocket for his phone. Alex, despite his pride, had asked for Henry’s help three nights ago and, with the usual chastisements about plausible deniability and Alex’s need to work independently, Henry had provided. A contact in the department has added Alex to a list of external staffers conducting a routine audit over the next two weeks. He doesn’t have to show up to any meetings, but when the security guard searches for his name on the list of approved personnel, he’ll clear this first boundary easily.

His plan for John is more tenuous. They know a ventilator repair company arrives today at the back entrance; they wear the same navy blue as John’s boiler suit. All he has to do is slip through the open back doors while the other workmen are looking away, and he’s inside. It’s not impossible; in fact Alex is sure he’d be able to pull it off himself, but he can’t help but worry about John becoming flustered if questioned, or lacking the agility to slip in without anyone noticing.

Alex knows he’s externalising some of his own fear. After all, if John gets caught, Alex is confident that Henry will pull some strings and get his charges dropped quickly and quietly. But Alex won’t get off that lightly. Not with the law, and _certainly_ not with Henry. 

Still, this plan doesn’t work if he’s worrying incessantly about John. He clears security without attracting more than a cursory glance from the security guard, and walks quickly and confidently down the first-floor corridor. He memorised which way to go after John pulled the building blueprints off the internal staff information page of the IRS website, marked as a pdf of the fire escape plan. 

John will create a diversion by blocking one end of the hallway with a ladder to the ceiling ventilator and some dust sheets to obscure the office door from view of a security camera. Alex will come down the other end and enter the office to copy the hard drive. The occupant of the office, a deputy commissioner for operations, who actually is senior enough to have the files they’re looking for, will be in a meeting between eleven and one. This is more than enough time.

There are so many things that could go wrong, but Alex likes to think the sheer simplicity of the plan will work in their favour.

Alex can’t help but clench and unclench his fist as he approaches the doorway to the focal corridor of this plan. He needs to see John standing there with his ladder and dust sheets; if he isn’t there, something has gone wrong, and Alex will have to make an impossible decision between forging ahead at considerable risk, going to find John, and fleeing the scene alone.

He almost lets out a laugh of pure relief when he sees John’s familiar head of curls at the end of the hallway, his face turned away from Alex, busy draping a dust sheet over the top of the heavy metal ladder he’s lugged all the way up here. John turns around at the sound of Alex’s footsteps coming down the corridor, and Alex sees the tension in his shoulders loosen as he recognises Alex.

“Got in okay?” John’s voice is low, even though they both know no one is around to hear them.

Alex nods and digs into his pocket, pulling out the odd little tool John had been astounded he owned even before this mission. It’s a small, flat s-shaped piece of metal that Alex now slides into the keyhole, his lip caught between his teeth and his eyes narrowed as he begins to fiddle with it. John climbs to the top of the ladder to keep watch and Alex shifts his crouch, drawing even closer to the keyhole. 

He wouldn’t know how to do this if it weren’t for one foster parent he’d lived with in the ninth grade. His foster father there used to get drunk and lock himself in the apartment - Alex never did figure out if that low-life had forgotten he had a foster son or if he simply couldn’t stand to be around the loud-mouthed fourteen year old who poked a hole in everything he said. Alex used to have to pick the lock on the front door to get in, otherwise he’d be sleeping in the hall outside. 

He feels around for the pins inside the lock and begins sliding them up one by one, his hand growing clammy around the little metal tool. He has to use a bit of elbow grease for the last pin, but when he finally hears that little click of the metal pieces inside the keyhole shifting for him, the frantic pounding of blood in his ears is replaced by a momentary rush of relief and triumph.

“Did you get it?” John asks in a low whisper, barely turning his head away from where he’s pretending to fiddle with the ventilator grille. 

Alex makes a small affirmative noise and opens the office door, straightening up and pocketing the metal hook. 

He closes the door behind him with a little salute to John and turns to face the office he’s stepped into.

The computer is at a desk at the far end of the office. Alex takes just long enough to appreciate that this is the sort of office he’d like one day, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a grand mahogany desk - and a hardwood floor, unlike the scratchy grey carpeting that _always_ skins his knees raw. 

He’s got the same type of gadget that John lent him to use on that imbecile’s phone, but this one is adapted to copy hard drives. John showed him how to open the back of the computer, quickly remove the hard drive and copy it. He grits his teeth as he crouches down by the computer and begins to pry off the side panel. John warned him he might have to use the little screwdriver he’s brought with him to remove some extra protective panelling, but thankfully Alex doesn’t see anything of the sort. The hard drive is easy to find: a little metal case nestled amongst circuit boards and thick coils of wires. He should be doing this with the computer unplugged, but the insulated gloves John found should protect him if he touches the wrong wire and shocks himself, and they also stop him from leaving any fingerprints. 

He takes the hard drive carefully from the computer and places it inside the device John quizzed him rigorously on last night. His hands are still a little unsteady as he slots the hard drive into the dongle, but as soon as the little white light flashes to tell him it’s started processing, he knows John’s predictions were correct. The hard drive is compatible; they’ll get the key.

As soon as this dangerously optimistic thought occurs to him, he hears voices in the corridor outside. At once, the adrenaline hammering through him seems to swell like an orchestral symphony and the barely repressed internal monologue - _oh, fuck, this was a bad idea! Fucking terrible idea - what was I thinking? What have I gotten John into?_ \- begins to roll across his vision like subtitles.

“I’m his PA, surely I can go in to collect a file?” comes an irritated female voice from outside, and Alex begins seriously considering the air vent escape route.

Then, unmistakably John’s voice, though perhaps a little gruffer and less polite than his usual well-bred southern hospitality dictates. “The-- uh, ventilator’s being repaired, ma’am, can’t let anyone in without proper dust masks. Health and safety risk.”

Alex holds his breath and prays that this stroke of ingenuity pays off.

There’s a frustrated tutting noise from the woman. “It doesn’t sound like anyone’s working in there.”

Alex swears under his breath and gets half up off the floor from his crouch, trying to lower his voice to a passable imitation of the macho straight guys that give him dirty looks in Home Depot. “We’re gonna need another point-five drop lift in here, dust’s fucking everywhere!”

There’s a beat of silence from the hallway, then John again, sounding more confident this time.

“Yeah, give me a minute!” And then to the woman, “Sorry, if you come back in fifteen?”

There’s an exaggerated sigh of resignation from the woman and Alex hears her footsteps recede back the way she came. Alex doesn’t move until he can no longer hear the clicking of her heels.

He would laugh aloud if he wasn’t certain it would come out raw and high with disbelief. He looks down at the dongle in his lap. The light is green. It’s finished.

Quickly, he takes the hard drive out of the dongle, presses it back into its niche in the computer and begins to slot the metal panel back in place. The worst of it is over. _Fucking hell is he a genius!_

Alex straightens up, pocketing the dongle, and hastens back over to the door. He puts his ear to it for a moment to check that the hallway outside is empty but for John, then pushes open the door and steps out. 

John jerks around to face him. His face is very white.

“You got it?”

Alex does allow himself a laugh now, scrubbing a hand down his face and wrinkling his nose at the dampness he finds on his forehead.

“I got it. Good improv, by the way.”

John gives a high, nervous chuckle and Alex crouches down in front of the door again, taking the little s-shaped hook back out of his pocket. He and John deliberated over whether they could spare the extra two minutes it’d take to pick the door closed again, but this step is essential in covering their tracks. Besides, Alex has already worked out how this specific lock works, so relocking it should be a piece of cake. 

John is tapping his foot nervously against the foot of the ladder as Alex repicks the lock. The sound is only making him more anxious; he needs to concentrate on this bloody lock--

He straightens up, pocketing the little tool and wiping his clammy hands on his pants.

“Okay, go out the back again. I’ll meet you round the corner, yeah?”

John is already pulling the dust sheets down and draping them over his arm. With his paint-stained boiler suit and the heavy ladder held effortlessly under his arm, John’s appearance suddenly gives Alex the disconcerting image of what his and John’s life might be like if Henry wasn’t respectively John’s father and his legal guardian. Maybe they’d work construction or something together, share beers after clocking out on a Friday. They'd wing-man for each other. John would end up getting some ugly truck that he'd spend all his weekends fixing up, and Alex would do community-college law school by night. It would be a smaller life, cozy and unimportant...

 _What the fuck is he talking about?_

He raises a hand by way of goodbye and begins to walk quickly down the corridor, shaking some flyaways out of his face and straightening his tie. He keeps turning the corners into fluorescent-lit hallways and expecting to see half a dozen security guards waiting for him. He couldn’t pretend at innocence now, not with the laughably cliche burglary tools in his pocket and the gadget in his briefcase.

He reaches the front lobby and makes a beeline for the door. He can feel the breeze off the street - he’s literally so close to success, he can see Henry’s expression--

“Alexander!”

He nearly jumps out of his skin, spinning around to face _that fucking imbecile_ . Of course, of all places, of all _fucking_ times--

He forces a smile to his face, his hand curling instinctively more tightly around the handle of his briefcase.

“Hey, uh- how are you doing?”

The man’s grin is too broad to be genuine. Alex tries to remember what that note said. It was nice, wasn’t it?

“I’m great, but I’ve been trying to find your number. I figured you must have given it to me at some point.”

Alex bites his lip. “I’m sure I did.”

He did, but he tossed that burner phone on that disastrous night when he realised how irrelevant this man actually was. 

“What are you doing here, anyway?” the man asks suddenly, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows as he looks down at Alex’s sharp suit and expensive briefcase. Shit, what did he tell this guy he did again? Marketing consultancy? Or, hang on, was it an internship? 

“Uh, just a work-study thing,” he says vaguely, glancing over his shoulder at the door - any second now he’s expecting some huge, armed security guard to move in front of it, blocking his exit.

The man is watching him now with a look Alex remembers from that evening at the bar: the gaze that had made him cringe under the weight of it, nothing like Henry’s heavy, burning stare. There’s no _control_ in it. 

“I had a really good night. You were incredible, Alexander.”

Alex cringes but tries to twist it into a coy smile, pushing some hair out of his face before realising he’s drawing attention to how hard his hands are shaking. He needs to get the fuck out of here, John will be waiting. 

“Uh, same here. Listen, I need to--”

“When can I see you again?” 

Alex feels himself squirming. Why won’t this creep look away from Alex’s face? Could he not at least break eye-contact for a second?

And why does it feel like he’s rehearsed this interaction? 

“Uh, I don’t know, I’m pretty busy all this week and next…”

The man smiles, and it’s all Alex can do not to book it in the opposite direction. 

“Well, I’ll pin you down eventually. Can I get your number again? The one I’ve got isn’t working.”

Alex nods. At this point he’d give this guy his social security number if that meant he could leave. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens his notes app, where he has a list of all the phone numbers he uses. One at the end is old, and he hasn’t given it to anyone in months. He can toss it later.

Alex reads it out to the man and smiles nervously as he puts it into his phone, glancing over his shoulder all the while. Then the guy actually presses call on Alex’s new contact and looks expectantly at the phone in Alex’s hand, waiting for it to ring.

“Oh, this is my work phone,” Alex bluffs, “I gave you my personal number.”

The man hangs up and raises an eyebrow, grinning. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you on that one.”

Alex gives a nervous laugh and takes a step backwards, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “I have to get going…”

The man shrugs. “Nice to see you again, Alexander. I‘ll call. You can count on it.”

Alex nods, mouth still stretched in that painfully forced grin, so unlike his usual glowing charm. 

“Yeah. See you around,” he manages, and before the other man can say anything else that might keep Alex there, he turns on his heel and walks quickly towards the front doors. He’s certain the look on his face is nothing short of pure unease, obvious paranoia. He has to be the most suspicious looking person walking out of here today, and it’s because _that asshole_ happened to show up. How can Alex manage to pull off a heist at the headquarters of the IRS in D.C with nothing more than a slight hand-tremor, but this fucking guy shows up and cracks his calm exterior?

But then Alex takes a breath of D.C winter air and he might as well be breathing for the first time in days. He hurries down the sidewalk, resisting the temptation to break into a full-blown run. He has the key; who cares about some useless former mark? Alex can toss that burner the minute he gets home.

\-----

When Alex dials Henry’s number the moment they get back home, he almost considers leaving the phone on speaker so that John can share in the praise, even if obliquely. But then Alex realises that there’s just as much chance that Henry’s going to make one of his increasingly snide and crude taunts about John, and then that will just sour their evening. So as much as Alex wants John to be able to share in this triumphant moment, which he’s earned in spades, he puts the phone to his ear instead.

It rings for a long time, but Alex knows he needs to be patient; he suspects Henry leaves him waiting sometimes just so that Alex hangs up too soon and Henry can have another reason to admonish him.

“How have you messed up _this_ time, Alexander?” Henry says, instead of a greeting. 

Alex frowns. “Um. I haven’t, sir. I managed to get the key.”

“Oh?” Henry sounds genuinely surprised.

“That’s right,” Alex says, now prickling with defensiveness. “John’s checked it and it all works out. We’ve extracted the records you need.”

Henry is silent for a long moment. Another trap. Alex grits his teeth and waits.

When he speaks again, Henry sounds suspicious. “How did you manage that so quickly, Alexander?” But Henry doubting his abilities is nothing new, and for Alex, evoking this reaction is just a step short of genuine praise.

“Trade secret. You did want me to work independently, sir,” Alex replies, trying to hide the smirk in his voice.

“So I did. And you say that Jack has managed to obtain the information?”

Alex shoots a silent questioning look at John, who immediately reads his meaning and gives him a thumbs up. “On its way to you as we speak.”

“At least he’s good for something,” Henry mutters under his breath - but clearly loud enough that Alex is meant to hear it. “Well, Alexander, however you have pulled this one off, it must have taken some considerable cunning. I will admit I had my doubts about you after your last call, but you have recovered some of your esteem in my eyes. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Alex says, flushing at the praise, but unable to fully untangle the little knot in his belly that’s whispering, _you couldn’t have done it without John, it’s not fair for you to take all the credit._

But there’s nothing he can do about it. If Henry ever found out Alex had gotten John involved in actual fieldwork, he’d be out on his ass faster than he can blink.

“Oh, and won’t you convey to Jack that he should be sending me more regular updates of his activities? I need to make sure that my son is keeping up appearances.” _My son_ \- the way Henry says it, tinged with a little sneer of regret, immediately rankles Alex. It’s also calculated, he knows, to remind _him_ that he does not hold this status. Henry is nothing if not a multitasker.

“Yes, sir,” Alex says, instead of yelling down the phone what he’d really like to say - that John is wonderful and smart and far braver than Henry could be; that he’s a loyal friend and a safe harbour; that he does more for Henry than Henry could ever deserve--

God, the adrenaline must be heightening all of his emotions.

“Very well. I will call you when I need you again.” And Henry hangs up. 

Alex holds the phone to his ear a little longer and fakes a more cordial ending to the conversation, then pretends to end the call and looks over at John with a grin.

“He was thrilled!” he says. “I feel really bad about not being able to tell him what a badass you were though.”

John smiles brightly. “It’s fine! You take enough flak from him, think of it as balancing the scales.”

“But that means drinks are on me,” Alex grins, reaching for his coat. “We can go somewhere nice if you want?”

“Might be nice to find a place where the floors aren’t sticky…” John muses.

“Excellent.” Alex loops his arm through John’s and elbows him fondly in the ribs. “Your first heist, John! That deserves something special.”

\----- 

Alexander’s with some other man. That won’t do.

They’re both blind drunk, and if Alexander was alone it wouldn’t be hard to get him out of here and into a taxi. But the jock-type with him looks a little too dangerous.

That’s okay. He can wait a little longer.

He sidles up close to their table and snaps a photo, well hidden by the fake glasses and hat he’s wearing. Alexander doesn’t even spare him a glance.

Oh, but he’ll be paying attention soon enough.


	3. Chapter 3

“Shit.” 

Alex flops down onto his bed, holding his phone up above his face. They have the lights down low - just a habit, considering how often they work in the dark - and the bright white light is illuminating the contours of his face.

“Hmm?” 

“This asshole found my number again.”

Alex tilts his screen towards John, who’s sitting on his own bed across the room and sketching by the light of his bedside lamp. John sees a vaguely familiar face - the guy Alex got tangled up with when he was doing that job at the local IRS office only to find out he was just some low-level front office clerk. 

Alex dropped him right away when he realised that. The guy hasn’t gotten the hint. 

“Oh, ha!” Alex says with a cruel smirk a moment later. “He sent another dick pic too.”

Alex flashes the screen towards him again and John gives it a bored, cursory look. 

He’s trying to unwind after a long, frustrating day and the last thing he needs right now is reminders of Alex’s job - not that John isn’t constantly worrying about the clever and intricate ways his foster brother puts himself in danger on a daily basis.

He hunches a bit further over his sketchbook to silently signal that he doesn’t want to hear about this.

But Alex is too focused on his screen to notice. He snorts suddenly. “Oh, god, John, this is so fucking _sad!_ ” John hears the sound of Alex taking a screenshot - another habit, messages can always be deleted but screenshots preserve the proof - and then he continues. “Listen to this fucking wannabe Wordsworth.” He drops his voice into a low, mocking sing-song. “ _I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re perfect_. He spells it _your_ not _you’re_ , by the way. What a moron. Anyway. _Been dreaming about you. Your eyes._ Fucking get off, jesus. _Your hair. Your voice. Your mouth on me_.” Alex cackles. “Can’t blame him, huh, John? Fine piece of ass like me?”

John hums flatly, trying to say _stop, I’m not interested in this_ without actually having to articulate it. Alex knows him well enough that he picks up on it.

Alex shrugs. “Anyway. This sad fuck is persistent, I’ll give him that. Weird that he got this number though.”

It _is_ weird. John frowns and lowers his pencil. “Is that one of the unlisted ones?”

Alex taps a few times to check. “Uh, yeah.”

“That’s not good, Alex.” John feels that uneasy anxiety rising up from behind his diaphragm.

Alex shrugs again. “It’s D.C. If you pay the right person enough money you can get any records you want.” They’ve done that plenty themselves, thanks to their seemingly bottomless Laurens fortune.

There’s a momentary pause where they hover between _let’s address it_ and _let’s ignore it_ , but then Alex goes back to scrolling, so John picks up his pencil again. 

But about fifteen minutes later, Alex suddenly sits up. “Oh. _Fuck._ ” He doesn’t sound amused and snide any more - there’s a genuine note of panic there. “John. Look at this.”

John puts his sketchbook down - carefully closed, so Alex doesn’t see what he’s been drawing - and hops off his bed and crosses the room to Alex’s. By the time he’s taken these few steps, his mind has sharpened and focused. Alex is wide-eyed as he bites down on his lower lip.

Alex holds up the phone. There are pictures coming through - photos of Alex leaving the apartment; at a bar; ordering a coffee; getting into an Uber. They are a little blurry, and John can tell they’re from a cell phone camera - so whoever took them couldn’t have been standing too far away.

Then another text comes in.

_Unknown > ignore me all you want alexander _

_Unknown > but ive got my eye on you _

John can hear Alex grinding his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut. 

John knows it’s not just the fear of what an obsessive creep might try to do that’s bothering him. Alex doesn’t like loose ends. He doesn’t like jobs not to be neat and boxed away. This is going to feel to him like he made a mistake - and Alex doesn’t tolerate anything less than one hundred percent from himself. There’s a risk here that he’s going to spiral.

So John puts his arm around his foster brother’s shoulder and says, quiet but firm, “We’ll fix it.”

Alex hesitates for a second, then leans into John’s chest. He’s still staring at the screen when he mumbles a quiet, “Okay.”

“Is he just trying to freak you out? Or do you think he might try and do something?”

“I dunno. He did get my number. He’s had someone taking pictures for... Shit - that one was from two weeks ago. It feels off. I don’t like it.”

“You wanna get the police involved?” 

Despite his unsettled expression, Alex still manages to give him a sarcastic eyebrow-raise.

“Should we call--”

“No,” Alex snaps. “Look. You don’t have to get involved, John. I’ll deal with it.”

“Nonsense,” John says firmly. “Brothers look out for each other.”

Alex just shrugs around a tense pout.

“Hmm.” John breathes out and stares across the room, thinking. “Do you have any material on him that we haven’t used yet?”

Alex shakes his head. “Wasn’t important enough to bother getting dirt on.”

“Okay. How easy is he gonna be to scare?”

Alex shifts back and gives him a searching look. “What do you have in mind?”

John matches his intense look with one of his own. “Well?”

“I mean, if he’s this persistent, I don’t think a strongly worded email is gonna cut it.”

John huffs at that, then gets up and crosses back to his side of the room. He kneels down next to his bed and roots around for the small, black, hard-plastic case he keeps there. 

He clicks the latches open and pulls out the M9.

John hoped he’d never need to use it, but given the increasingly dark and high-level work Alex has been doing, it seemed like a useful precaution. And now it feels like Alex is genuinely in danger.

Not even Henry knows he has it. Ironic, because he supposes his father would be perversely proud to know that his son owns a firearm.

“What the actual _fuck,_ John?” Alex yelps. “Why do you have a _gun?_ ”

John runs through the safety precautions deftly and tucks it into the back of his pants. “It’s not loaded,” he reassures Alex. Except for the single round in the chamber, that is. “Send him a message. Tell him to meet you somewhere out of the way.”

Alex just stares at him, mouth hanging open a little.

“Earth to Alex?”

Alex’s eyes narrow slightly but he unlocks his phone and types something. “You’re not gonna, you know...?”

John rolls his eyes and can’t help the amused smirk that tugs at one side of his mouth. Alex is usually the one wrongfooting him with his outrageous schemes, so it’s nice to be on the other end of the exchange. “No, Alex, I'm not gonna _shoot_ him.”

Alex purses his lips but doesn’t comment further. John slips a dark hoodie over his sweater and roots around for his nice leather gloves. He can feel Alex’s eyes on him the whole time, and when he turns back to look at him there is something sparkling and unfathomable in Alex’s eyes.

“What?” John asks, crossing his arms.

“It’s just-- You’re so--” Alex waves a hand in the air. “I dunno, this is not a side of you I’m used to seeing.”

“Just being careful.”

“No, I know, it’s-- Never mind.” Alex gets off the bed and puts on his own long coat. “So what’s the plan?”

He’s still looking a bit unsteady, so John puts an arm over his shoulder as they leave the apartment. “Okay. Here’s what you’re gonna do.”

\-----

Alex hunches his shoulders in his big woolen coat and tries to keep his eyes on the pavement in front of him - but he can’t help his gaze sliding up to John, who’s walking beside him with his jaw set and an uncharacteristic mix of anger and confidence in his posture.

This is not a John he knows at all.

Yes, sure, John is good at playing the over-protective big brother, and yes, John has used violence to solve problems - but it’s always been spontaneous and visceral. Not cold, methodical, planned. That’s supposed to be Alex’s domain.

And yet… 

Fuck. He’s not supposed to be thinking it, but John’s _hot_ like this. That slight flush beneath his freckles, the set of his shoulders and his brow, the defiant tilt to his chin. Alex tries not to imagine what those leather gloves would feel like on him, but of course his brain instantly goes there. A hand around his wrist, on his waist, against his throat…

Shit!

Alex tries to mask his cringe. He can’t let himself lust after John, of all people. Certainly not when he’s had John’s dad’s dick in him. Even to Alex, that feels unholy.

And yet…

No. _Fuck._ Head in the game, Hamilton. 

And not a moment too soon, because they’re close to the park that Alex texted the guy to meet him at. Alex suddenly feels scared again - not that he’d ever admit it, not for a second, not even to John - so he stops in his tracks and covers for it by adjusting his scarf and checking the time on his phone. They have a few minutes.

“Okay, so,” he says.

John sees through some of his facade; his big, strong, leather-clad hand - _fuck_ \- comes up to Alex’s shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. “I’ve got your back, okay? Promise.”

And well, shit, who wouldn’t believe the assurance in that low, confident voice? Alex nods.

“Just go in, keep him talking, keep him focused on you and I’ll handle the rest. Got it?”

“Yeah. You better not flake out on me, John,” he says, and it’s meant to be teasing but his voice comes out high and tight and exactly like the vulnerable child he _definitely is not._

“I won’t let him hurt you.”

Alex nods, not trusting his voice again.

“Okay, time to go. Is your phone recording?”

Alex switches on the voice note app. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

Suddenly, John has him wrapped up in a fierce hug - just as Alex is on the cusp of mastering himself again. He melts instantly. Part of it is this familiar comfort of something that might be home, if he knew for certain what that was. A new part is the fact that John smells like cedar and clean sweat and, shit, is that a metallic tang from the gun shoved in his waistband?

_Fuck._

“You can do this,” John murmurs into his hair - and Alex realises in a flash that this comfort is not just for his sake. 

So he wraps his arms around tightly and says, “I trust you.”

They pull apart awkwardly and - wait - is there something strange in the air, or…?

Alex doesn’t have the time to figure it out now.

They walk in through the park gate and John splits off, as planned. Alex has always found the darkness in these spaces to be comforting and useful, but now that John has left his side, the fear creeps back up his spine.

He finds the guy sitting on the park bench, as arranged.

Alex stops a few yards away.

“Stop following me,” he says, with as much coolness and venom as he can muster.

“Alexander!” the man says, in a mockingly delighted tone. “I knew you’d come.”

“Only to tell you to leave me the fuck alone.”

He stands, starts to meander over casually. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Alexander. I can take care of you.”

Alex sneers. “Doubt it.”

“Oh, I have lots to offer, if only you would listen. I can give you things. Pay your school fees. All I’m asking in return is for you to let me worship you.”

"I am listening. You're not. Read my lips: you can fuck right off, asshole.”

In an instant, his mood changes from pretended niceness to genuine malice. “Now, why would I do that, you dumb little whore?”

Alex scowls and grits his teeth, suddenly more angry than afraid. His mind can’t help to flash to the sepia-toned memory of his mother being taunted out on the street. “Shut the fuck up,” he growls.

“Or what? I asked around, and I know you’ve been opening your legs all around town. One cock not good enough for a slut like you?”

Alex is spitting mad now, so much that he actually takes a step forward. It’s the wrong move. The guy lunges the rest of the distance and grabs for him - one hand on his upper arm, the other yanking his hair back. Alex may be many things, but he isn’t strong, and this hold effectively immobilises him.

He yelps. _Where’s John?_

“Now, Alexander,” the man growls, “Either I tell everyone I know what a sloppy, filthy whore you are, or you come back with me, nice and quiet, and I give you so much cock you’ll be begging me to stop.”

Alex squeezes his eyes shut and tries to master his panic. Threats like this - well, at least of this kind - aren’t new. But there’s a particular degree of violence and coldness to this one that prevents him raising his defences. 

_John, please!_

He’s trembling now, gripping onto the hand in his hair to stop it being yanked out, when the guy suddenly freezes. Alex pries open his eyes and sees a leather hand up around his throat, the cold eyes wide and white.

“Get your hands off him,” John growls - but even though Alex knows it’s John, there’s nothing of his gentle, awkward foster brother in that voice.

There’s a cold, metallic click.

The hands release him. Alex stumbles a few steps back. He sees John’s other arm angled behind the guy’s back. From the way he’s arching away, Alex presumes John’s got the gun pressed in there.

“Now, here’s what’s gonna happen,” John says. “You’re gonna hand over your phone.” The guy pulls it out of his pocket instantly and holds it out. Alex slips forward to grab it, then steps back. “Okay, good. You’re gonna call off whatever minion you have following Alex around.” The guy nods frantically. “And you are never going to get within a hundred feet of Alex ever again.”

The guy must go mad with fear and adrenaline, because his eyes land on Alex, begging for help. “But,” he croaks, “Tell him, Alexander. Tell him you liked it.”

Alex sneers. “You must be fucking kidding.”

Those watery grey eyes narrow. “Don’t pretend, Alexander. Tell him!”

Alex glares back. “You just threatened to rape me, asshole.”

“Oh, don’t pretend. You wanted it then, and you want it now. Whore.” 

Alex stares at him with wordless rage, but a moment later he yelps in alarm because John pulls the gun out of the guy’s back, presses it to the side of his leg, and fires.

Jesus fucking christ!

The guy screams and his legs give out - he’d collapse if John wasn’t still holding him up. 

“You wanna repeat that?” John growls, cool and dark.

The guy’s a mess of whimpers and weak struggling now, dark blood oozing out of his thigh.

“No?” John says. “Then let’s try again. You gonna stay away?”

The guy makes something like an affirmative yelp. John drops him.

“We’re done. Come on, Alex.”

Alex is rooted to the spot. He can barely breathe from the adrenaline jack-hammering his heart against his ribs. 

“Alex?” John says, a little kinder, and reaches out a hand. Alex steps up to him and takes it. He stares up at John’s face - somehow, it’s still his John, all curls and freckles and that little look or concern he never quite seems to drop. “Let’s go.”

***

“You lied to me.” It’s the only thing Alex can think to say.

He’s still gripping John’s hand tightly, and there’s a very strange clash of the usual comfort this brings, contrasted with the new and completely foreign shiver of dread - but it’s not a bad kind of fear; with all the adrenaline flooding through him, it’s delicious. 

But something of the old John is returning to the voice and the posture already. 

“What do you mean?”

“You said it wasn’t loaded.”

“Oh. Ha.” John smiles sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“You fucking _shot_ him,” Alex says, slightly giddy.

“Shit. Yeah, guess I did.”

“Never had someone shoot a guy for me before,” Alex says, trying to make this insane situation into a joke.

“I’d do anything for you, Alex,” John says, much more softly.

Alex stops, and pulls John to a halt with him. His instincts are telling him something’s wrong, and as soon as John turns to look at him, he can see him wavering on the verge of suppressed anxiety.

He takes John’s other hand and squeezes both tightly. “Thank you,” he says. “I don’t say that enough.”

John gives him a watery smile. “It’s fine, Alex.”

“It was very impressive,” he says, a little more lightly. 

John shrugs. “Just felt like the right thing to do. The way he grabbed you, the sick stuff he was saying…”

“Yeah.” Alex is quiet for a moment. “You okay?”

John shrugs. Alex sees the way he narrows his eyes, and he knows that means tears are threatening. He’s seen that look on John many times, usually after one of Henry’s particularly vicious beratements.

“Come here,” he says softly, and wraps John up in a hug. John reaches around him, almost too gently, like he’s afraid of breaking him. Alex slips a hand up to the back of his neck and rubs his thumb in soothing circles. “It’s okay, John. You did so well today.”

John sighs into the side of his neck. The hot breath tickles his skin, and the little shiver it evokes runs down his spine. This weird feeling again. Alex’s heart starts to beat a little faster, a moment before his brain catches up with what his visceral instincts are picking up.

John’s hands tighten around him in a way that’s not entirely brotherly.

Alex slips his hand up a little higher, experimentally, to the curls at the base of John’s skull.

John breathes another sigh and shifts his stance, just a little, to draw Alex closer in.

Shit. There’s a chance he’s misreading this, but… Alex is rarely wrong about body language.

He turns his face more tightly into the curve where John’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Alex…” John whispers, part warning, part question.

Alex sucks in a deep breath. He’s certain John can feel his heart thudding against his chest - if only because he can feel John’s pulse racing under his cheek.

God, he shouldn’t.

John’s right hand slides up his back to his shoulder, just as Alex shifts away, but only far enough so that he can look up into John’s face. John’s eyes are black, intense, infinitely deep. 

Alex can feel how hot his cheeks are burning, and they flush even brighter when he meets that gaze and all the pieces fall into place - and no, no fucking way is he mistaken.

He shouldn’t.

But he pushes up on his toes, his eyes locked on John’s, and hovers his lips just an inch away.

John closes the final little distance himself. God, his lips are soft, hot, entirely sinful. Alex closes his eyes, but only because he wants to _feel_ this, all of it. 

John’s arms tighten impossibly around him, driving the breath out of Alex’s mouth and into his own. Alex digs his fingers into those beautiful curls, suddenly sensuous and soft against his hand. He presses his body forward, trying to say _yes, yes_ with the words that have been stolen out of his mouth.

John parts his lips, just a little, and Alex dives in at once with his tongue, like he needs John’s mouth more than he needs air. John matches him, draws him even closer - how is that possible? - and makes a low, needy, desperate sound. Alex swallows it. Makes one of his own.

They kiss like this for what feels like hours, barely moving, trying desperately to consume each other.

Then something changes. A little discordant note. Alex feels it shiver through John a moment before John pulls away. 

“Fuck,” John breathes. “Oh my god.”

His lips are red, wet, perfect. Alex wants to lean in again, but John’s arms are suddenly uncomfortably tight, like he’s tensed up. John lets go, and Alex drops down to his heels and stumbles half a step back.

John wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Alex--”

Alex can see the panic, the guilt, the confusion welling up. John’s eyes are impossibly wide now.

Alex doesn’t get close again, but he says, “It’s okay.”

John shakes his head.

“It’s _okay,_ John,” he says more firmly, more distantly. “Nothing happened.”

John looks up at him, pleading.

Alex schools his face and shrugs. “It’s been an insane day. You just _shot_ someone. It’s just the adrenaline coming out. It’s okay.” It’s the only reassurance he can possibly think of.

“Oh. Um, yeah. We should-- Ah, get home.”

“You know what?” Alex says. “You head back, I’m gonna go pick up some, uh, groceries and shit. We’re out of milk, right?”

John nods numbly.

Alex turns and waves casually, but only just in time to hide his own look of confusion and hurt.

He strides away down the street, finds a bar and orders a triple tequila that he finishes in two gulps. Stalks the late-night streets for an hour, torn between his anxiety to get home and see that John’s okay, and his stomach-churning fear of having to face those hollow, ashamed eyes.

Shit. Have they just fucked everything up?

Alex can’t quite calculate back to exactly how the kiss happened. Sure, John was dark and confident and sexy tonight, and yes of course Alex cares more for him than just about anyone else. But Alex has never glued these two disparate feelings together. It feels wrong. John’s like a brother to him.

But the more confusing piece is that John was kissing him back - and if anything, John was the one who initiated it in the first place. Where did that come from? Alex is no expert, but as far as he can tell, John’s actions towards him have always been firmly fraternal. Yes, maybe he’s picked up a strange look or an awkward moment here and there - but he’s always explained it away as something else. 

Even now, he doesn’t think there’s necessarily more to it. Alex means what he said earlier - adrenaline and fear are powerful chemicals that can fuck with your brain - and so he wants to just dismiss it and move on. After all, he needs John in his corner, needs to be able to count on him for his overbearing protectiveness and unspoken support and the way that John just balances out his manic energy. 

But Alex also can’t deny that it felt _good._ And not just in a sensual way; he can’t remember the last time he kissed someone and really meant it. This kiss with John was tender and intimate. It was so different from the way Alex has learnt to metabolise adrenaline and ambition into feigned arousal that the notion of genuine affection just feels strange. Alex doesn’t have the tools to process it. He waits for the drop, but even now, there’s a little warm spot right in his core that refuses to dim.

Despite himself, he wants more of it.

But that’s selfish, considering the sheer panic he saw in John’s face when the reality of what they’d done finally struck him. And anyway, he needs John for so much more. Alex can do without tenderness; he’s made it this far without it, after all.

But - shit. That little taste of it has left him wanting. And Alex doesn’t know how or where else he could possibly get more.

When Alex slips back home two hours later, more confused than before and having utterly forgotten his cover of groceries, John is pretending to be asleep. Alex slides into his own bed, turns his back on the room, and spends the rest of the night in a fuzzy half-sleep, clutching tightly to his pillow.


End file.
